


waves try to break us

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Harry's 21st, Interviews, Larry Stylinson Is Real, M/M, Reality, The X Factor Era, Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 11:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3288542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have a routine, Harry and Louis. And it works pretty well, until it doesn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	waves try to break us

**Author's Note:**

> This story was posted before Lairport 2k15 happened, so I'm feeling pretty psychic right now (!)

They were both wearing beanies. 

Harry's not sure why that memory sticks with him, rather than the words Simon said. But he remembers that both he and Louis were wearing beanies, tears still drying on their cheeks, and they both clapped hands to their faces, to hide their smiles. To check that this was really happening. To believe, somehow, that a dream might be coming true.

*

He supposes it began with the video diaries. It seemed like a laugh, crowded in on the stairs and high on adrenaline. Harry wasn’t really thinking, the first time Louis swooped in and messed with his hair, because _they were here_. In The X Factor house. And if that was possible, then anything was, really. By week two they were getting the most ridiculous questions from viewers, like “What do you look for in a girl?” and it was so stupid he lost it laughing when Louis won the bet by saying “Girls who like carrots”. Like, it couldn’t be real. No one was actually watching this nonsense. But he supposed somebody must have been, because people were voting for them. Because they were getting through.

By week three, they’d become less awkward, but their natural silliness was surfacing. Louis was biting Harry’s shoulder and checking his temperature, and wearing the bin lid on his head. It was all a bit of fun, Harry remembers. Particularly the way the woman in charge of ‘online content’ used to scowl at them from behind the camera. Like, he was sure they were supposed to be behaving better. He wondered how perfect little pop stars were supposed to behave. Not like _they_ did, obviously. Not tired and goofy and constantly having to cut the footage because they’d done something stupid. Again. Or because Niall just couldn’t stop laughing.

“If we don’t win the X Factor, lads, are we still going to stay as a band” Liam asked, on behalf of a fan.

Louis didn’t even blink. “Elastic band”.

That’s what it felt like, that first year. Like they were elastic. Stretching and pulling back to each other from every point on the compass. Every experience was new, and astounding, and they were right there _together_ , home at night collapsed on their sofa. Limbs tired and tangled and their faces fairly aching from smiling at each other, because _how was this their life?_ How had everything landed in their laps like this? 

They were flush with it. Sending silly tweets about pancakes and maple syrup, photos of dinner, jokes about being husbands and breaking up and flirting. Harry felt on top of the world. He remembers standing at the top of a run, skiing with Louis after the X Factor tour ended, and looking down the mountain and thinking there was literally nothing they couldn’t conquer. It was miraculous. These boys, who’d come into his life and changed everything about it. And Louis, with his angular hair and his bright eyes and his all-encompassing smile. Nothing Harry couldn’t do, with them at his side. Invincible.

So it’s funny, at first. The first time Niall sends them a link in an email with “MOTHER OF GOD” in the subject line. And Harry doesn’t really understand what he’s reading. Like, it’s about him and Louis, but it’s a story, not a news article. And he’s about to reply saying, _What is this shit, you daft bat?_ but then it takes a turn for the completely x-rated and Harry’s got his mouth hanging open and he doesn’t know what to do then. So he deletes it.

The thread continues for a few days, with Zayn digging up some really bad hand-drawn art of him and Niall in bed together, and Liam just shuddering anytime the subject comes up.

Louis doesn’t reply to any of these emails, and when Niall makes a joke about it in person he leaves the room. But Harry’s pretty sure things are still okay. They still give each other lovebites in advance of photocalls, and Louis still brings his tea into bed with Harry to watch tv. So he figures if nutters on the internet want to make up stories then they can have at it. They don’t know him or Louis. They certainly don't know him _and_ Louis. They’re untouchable.

*

On tour, Harry and Louis always have hotel rooms next door to one another, and Harry thinks having their own rooms is mostly crazy. Five minutes ago they were sharing bunk beds, and they still pack shared suitcases because let’s face it, keeping the laundry straight in their flat is a task they’ve both given up on. So they just always get two keys to both rooms and pretty much never respect each others’ boundaries, and it feels mostly the same as at home. 

He expects the adrenaline rush from performing on stage to damp down eventually, only it never does. After every show, they’re all keyed up and bouncing around. All the boys usually wind up in Harry’s room, out of habit, more than anything. Telling and retelling their favourite moments _D’ya see that banner with the glitter on me face!_ and _When your voice broke on that note I swore I’d never stop laughing enough to sing my line_. There’s usually the pretence of watching a movie, and sometimes there’s beers from the minibar. More often than not Harry will wake the next morning fully clothed and Louis will be facedown on the other bed, breathing heavily against a pillow. Usually it’s just them. Liam’s pretty good at making sure the others’ get back to their own rooms.

Harry will put the kettle on. Or order tea from room service if they’re in a ridiculous hotel that only has coffeemakers. By the time he’s dragged himself through the shower, singing Stevie Wonder at the top of his lungs, Louis will have woken up and clicked the tv on to a local news station, and be thumbing through his phone. They have a routine, Harry and Louis. And it works pretty well, until it doesn’t.

*

He supposes it’s not exactly Caroline’s fault, but they’re only supposed to be at this fitting for half an hour. Just to check the alterations to their suits for some GQ dinner next month. And Harry is fairly _flying_ because he and Louis had the _best_ weekend at the Leeds Festival, so even standing still for Caroline feels okay. Like he can behave and do this, because Louis’ right there wearing a Leeds t-shirt and also unable to get the grin off his face. 

But when they barrel into her studio, announcing their arrival and their great love for fine tailoring at the top of their lungs, Caroline and her assistant are crowded over an iPad weeping with laughter. “Have you seen this?” Caroline gasps, unable to catch her breath. And Harry’s really hoping it’s a cat in a shark suit riding a roomba. But of course it’s not. It’s a video of him and Lou pulling slowed-down cow-eyes at each other, set to a sappy ballad. 

Louis puts on a giant fake smile, throws an arm around Harry’s shoulders, and says, “Can’t hide real love, Caroline!!” and then retreats immediately to the other side of the room, toeing off his shoes.

So, it’s not really a surprise, a week later, when Louis begs off hanging out with the lads because he has a date with Eleanor. 

Harry’s pretty pleased, actually, if he thinks about it. Now Louis has a girlfriend again, things can go back to normal. Clear, incontrovertible, public proof that he and Lou are just mates. The fans can’t argue with that. It’s almost a relief, really. He can stop worrying so much about Louis and just go back to enjoying being on top of the world. So, yeah, Caroline Flack’s a bit older, but she’s fit and no one can dispute that. It’s Christmas, and they’ve signed a U.S. record deal, and Harry figures there’s no way anything can touch them now.

*

Their French interview is lazy and punch-drunk. The bus got in late, and they’d stayed up even later, blown away by the Eiffel Tower and the city lights and the fact that they’re proper _international_ touring artists now. 

Harry and Louis haven’t given an interview on their own for...god, maybe ever. And they’re in Paris, for fuck’s sake and it’s Valentines Day, so it’s not like anyone can blame Harry for staring at Louis like he’s got the answers to the universe behind his eyes. Louis is saying “of course he’s hot” and so Harry feels bold, calling him “handsome and rugged”. And it’s weird that Niall isn’t there snorting with laughter in the background; that there are no disapproving looks from Liam. It feels like they’re getting away with something they shouldn’t. The signing is crazy, as ever, loud and vibrant. But Louis is right there, whispering jokes in his ear, and he doesn’t hear the noise really, any more. It’s this distant hum, like living near train tracks. All he hears is Louis’ voice.

So it shouldn’t come as the shock it does, the next day, when his notifications blow up again and there they are, dissecting every look and every touch and every smile. 

Louis takes the seat in the shuttle beside Zayn and doesn’t look at him at all.

*

Harry’s bored. Like, so fucking bored. The others are all seated on couches and he’s perched on this fucking sideboard in a conference room at a _mall_ of all places, and he’s just not interested. In the interview, in this cliche of an American radio host, in the constant click of a shutter from someone with a camera off to the right. It’s surreal. 

But at least Louis is relaxed, for the first time in a while, lazing back in his chair, wearing Harry’s t-shirt grabbed from the suitcase when they were late this morning. He’s chatting about how they came together as a band, about what Simon Cowell is like, and Harry’s just glad. Like, it fills him with energy to see Louis happy and comfortable and not being asked about dumb rumours. Harry’s fingers are drumming incessantly against Louis’ chair, and before he thinks about it his knuckle is running along his upper arm. Louis shifts in his seat, presses his arm back against Harry’s hand for a second. Just a touch that says _Thank you_ and _I see you_ and _How did we get here?_ and the host is comparing them to the Beatles, for fuck’s sake. But Louis is smiling, and really, that’s all that counts. 

At a signing a few days later a fan just comes out and asks him, “Are you and Louis dating?” and it’s just so stupid. He nods, like, _Of course, you’ve found us out. You alone have cracked the code_. All the while laughing at the very idea. He wants to stand up and grab a microphone and say, “If I _was_ dating this beautiful boy, d’you think I could shut up about it?! D’you think anyone could make me??” But he just pushes his hair out of his face and signs the next hundred cds.

*

He can’t pinpoint when it changes. 

At first he just notices that Louis is not as grabby. He’s always been the neediest, physically. Always had a hand in Harry’s hair or an arm around his waist. Always been trying to stick a finger in Harry’s ear while he’s concentrating, or attempting to pull his pants down while he’s doing a phone interview. There’s a constant level of contact, around Louis, that Harry begins to notice has fallen away. 

At first he figures Louis is just tired. I mean, they all are. Jet-lagged and overwhelmed and they basically haven’t been home in a year. It’s crazy, the path they’ve been on, so it’s not surprising that the spontaneity they had in the early days is petering out.

But then he starts to realise that it’s something more than that. It’s not just a general malaise. Louis _is_ tired, Harry realises. Tired of being asked about Harry.

It takes him longer than it should to put it together. But every good day, every day filled with Louis at his happiest and most relaxed; every interview in which Louis gives him the very best smiles, or leans in to whisper stupid things in his ear, or throws an arm around his waist and tucks himself into Harry’s side. Every one of _those_ days is followed by two or three thunderous ones. Days where Louis doesn’t take his iPhone earbuds out except when they’re on camera. Days when he deliberately switches mic stands at the last minute, or seats at a signing, to be as far away from Harry as possible. It gives Harry whiplash until he works it out. Every good day blows up their mentions with the bloody Larry Stylinson tag. Every good day is sliced up, and analysed, and screenshotted, and slo-moed. 

Every good day gets picked apart and reconstructed into something it’s not. 

Once he figures it out, he feels like an idiot, first of all. But it also seems like an easy fix. Louis is the very best thing to happen to Harry, probably ever. And if all it takes to make him happy is not to give this insane rumour mill any fodder, then that’s the easiest thing of all. Harry’ll still make him tea in the morning. He’ll still take the top bunk on the bus because he knows Louis likes the bottom. He’ll still get in the makeup chair first because he knows Lou needs a bit more time to get himself mentally ready for a show, and he’ll still send him a boar emoji at random times because it makes Louis laugh. He’ll just put some distance between them in public, is all. 

*  
“I gotta ask about the bromances,” the interviewer is saying, and Harry freezes, feeling the energy leak from Louis next to him like a deflating balloon. And he’s trying to laugh it off, talking about one big five-part bromance, but his voice is strained and too loud and sarcastic. Harry places his hand on Louis’ knee, trying to think how to reassure him, but then he realises he’s probably making it worse. So he pats Zayn’s knee as well as if that was the joke all along. As if they’re all in on it. As if something ugly doesn’t twist in his chest and make him want to get up and call the interview to a halt.

Louis is keyed up, swivelling around in his seat and talking about how ridiculous it is that some people _genuinely think_ that he and Harry are in a relationship. And Harry can’t understand how this is the first time they’re talking about this, really, mashed together on this tiny, scratchy little couch in front of all of these cameras and hangers-on. “Yeah, I saw that,” he manages with a small smile. Wishing for the thousandth time he could protect Louis from this. But Louis’ hand is warm on Harry’s back and he figures the whole stupid “bromance” thing has to go away now. Louis has been as clear as he can. Next thing he knows Zayn’s recounting the story of some romantic video about him and Harry, so Harry gives Zayn his best romantic stare, and thinks _make videos from that_. He’d rather they paired him with anyone, even Liam, in their messed up obsessions. 

Anything that didn’t make Louis feel all sharp edges and cold frowns when they get back on the bus.

*

The MuchMusic interview is going well, right up until the point that the interviewer says “the fans want me to ask about Larry Stylinson,” and Harry swears, if he never hears that fucking name again it will be too soon. He tugs at his bracelet, and lets Louis talk, because whatever he wants to say right now Harry will support. He’ll nod in all the right places, but he can’t bring himself to smile, even when Louis throws his arm around Harry’s shoulders. And he can’t help but feel like Niall is making things worse, pointing out that this will be the photo that goes up on twitter, so he hams it up, grabbing at Louis’ pec like it’s a boob. 

And then, unbelievably the interviewer is asking if they’ve ever _kissed_ and Harry doesn’t understand why one of these god-awful media handlers that trail around after them isn’t stepping in by now, like what fucking use are they anyway, and both he and Louis are shaking their heads and saying no, because of _course_ not. But it’s too late, and Louis’ arm is gone, and even when Harry nudges his leg under the table, trying to fit _It’s okay_ , and _They’re idiots_ , and _No one with a brain believes this shit_ into one knock of his knee, Louis won’t look at him.

When they get to the hotel and check in, Harry’s scrawling his signature across the bottom of some form and not really paying attention until he hears Louis say, “Just one key, thanks.” He glances up in surprise, but Louis is halfway to the elevator and he doesn’t look back.

*

The Late Late Show in Ireland is a bit of a disaster, even by their own admittedly low standards. They start off okay. Liam is funny and charming about getting rejected by Posh Spice, but the host is determined to spend as much time as possible banging on about their personal lives. He’s asking Harry if he’s ready to settle down, which, _what the fuck?_ He’s not even twenty, and then all of a sudden Louis is stage-coughing, and Ryan is saying “It’s a fair point” and he’s pretty sure everyone in the room can hear Louis say “No, it wasn’t.”

And Louis is right. It’s not a fair point, not really. They’re here to talk about the album and the tour, and tell a few hilarious late-night-show anecdotes like Niall getting attacked by a squirrel, and turning down playing the White House. He really doesn’t care if people want to ask him about Taylor or rib him about Caroline’s age, or about kissing fans, but he’ll be damned if he lets that become the norm. Because _he_ doesn’t care, but Louis definitely does.

And then all of a sudden he hears “Who is Larry Stylinson?” and Harry thinks he’s close enough to the desk to punch Ryan Turbidy right in the nose, but it’s national television and the host will probably press charges.

He’s certainly not going to explain his tattoo to this grinning fool, so he lets Louis dismiss it as ‘quirky’. There are things Harry can change and things he can’t. And he’s pretty relaxed about that in his own life, but he needs to keep reminding himself about it when it comes to Louis. He’d force the whole world to its knees for Louis. He’d pull the last stars from the sky to stop people making him unhappy for even a second.

Some changes are simple. On stage, at the moments where he thinks about reaching for Louis, or whispering something to him, he chooses one of the other boys instead. It’s not the same, of course, their reactions not nearly as satisfying. But it’s for the greater good. Or at least, for Louis’ good. Even if Louis himself often reacts with a puzzled or confused expression. Harry misses it, a little; connecting on stage. Because there’s nothing that he likes more than leaning through the roar of the crowd to say something to Lou and having him tug out his in-ear so he can hear, letting Harry speak the words almost through his skin.

He thinks about explaining it to him. Sitting him down one day and saying, _Look, I get it. This whole thing is a bit shit, but I can make it better. I am. And they’ll stop talking about us eventually, and you El can be proper happy_. But how do you even start a conversation like that? Because Lou has moved out of their flat in London, and there’s no quiet moments now with their toes nudging each other under the duvet. There’s just Paul yelling at them that they have to be somewhere five minutes ago, and stylists tugging at their hair, and they’re never alone. Not really. Not alone enough for that conversation, anyway.

*

It’s Madison Square Garden, and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with his life after this. Like, if you’ve achieved everything you’ve aimed for before you’ve turned twenty you’re sort of destined to be a washed up failure, aren’t you?

He wants to put this theory to Louis, because Louis is the optimist. He’s the one who believes they’ll still be touring when they’re ninety. Or he used to. “You’ll be strutting around, just like Jagger, your face all melted,” Louis said once. And Niall immediately started whistling _Moves Like Jagger_ , while Harry wiggled his butt and stuck out his tongue. So he wants to hear that from Louis again, but the show at the Garden is too much of a whirlwind. Their families are here, and the camera crew is making the film, and Eleanor is staying so he can’t really bang on Louis’ hotel room door and say “Tell me again, Lou. Tell me this isn’t going to be all there is.” 

Which is how he finds himself kissing Taylor, who is smart and beautiful and knows exactly what he’s going through without him having to explain himself. So she’s a pretty good substitute for Louis, even if she feels too fragile and smells too flowery. Even if it seems like she’s always made-up and camera-ready. He misses that stupid, sleepy look Louis has first thing in the morning when his hair is sticking out in a thousand directions. He misses pulling on a hoodie that Louis has recently shucked, and being surrounded by something warm that smells like him. And when the missing gets too much he realises he’s being pretty awful to Taylor, and he needs to stick to casual things, so he breaks her heart quickly and gets on a plane.

*

The first time he see’s Louis’ _It is what it is_ tattoo his fingers itch to trace it, and he opens his mouth to ask Lou what it means, but he finds himself tongue-tied. The message seems too fatalist for his Louis, but he’s beginning to think maybe there isn’t a Louis that is _his_ any more.

*

In Australia, he’s doing the interview just with Liam and Niall. He’s grumpy about Louis somehow escaping it right up until the moment the interviewer breaks protocol and produces a copy of Famous magazine, a tabloid rag that shouldn’t even be _allowed_ to call itself a magazine. The blood is ringing in Harry’s ears because she’s saying he and Louis are a couple, and that there’s photos of them _kissing_ and Harry’s jet-lagged and hungover, but he’s pretty sure he’d remember that. 

The only times they’ve ever come close are seared in his memory, looping on the backs of his eyelids like a flickering silent movie on endless repeat.

“Jesus” exhales Niall, and Harry leans toward the photos in shock. Because at a glance they look real. Like, maybe he has amnesia, and at some point in the recent past he and Louis _had_ been kissing like the happy couples circled in the photos. But Liam’s beside him, ever the voice of reason, saying “That’s just weird,” and Harry shakes his head to clear it, declaring them photoshopped, and sinking back in his seat.

Later, on stage, as he does every night during _Rock Me_ , he sings to Louis, “You were mine and we never said goodbye”.

*

It should feel so good, to be back on tour. He’s been looking forward to _Where We Are_ for months.

These enormous crowds. Inexplicable, that they’re still filling stadiums. That the young girls who made them famous are growing in to young women, but they’re still supporting them to the point of religious fervour. It should feel amazing, but instead it feels bent; out of shape. 

Everything’s wrong. Their outfits are wrong. His hair is too long. The choreography is terrible. They’re even sitting back-to-fucking-back to sing _Little Things_ , which is about as messed up as Harry can fathom, and he finds himself staring up at Louis on the big screens when he sings his lines night after night. They might as well be doing this over Skype, and it makes Harry fucking miserable. Louis has lost too much weight, his face becoming thin and drawn, and the tabloids are cruel, talking about drug addiction and body image. Harry knows it’s none of those things, knows it with certainty, but something isn’t right because each night when the two of them take the catwalk during _Why Don’t We Go There_ they’re so out of sync it feels palpable.

This was supposed to make it better, Harry thinks. The whole point of this distance between them was to lift the pressure, not increase it, but it all feels arse-backward.

Being on stage with Louis has always been Harry’s highest high, better than any drug or orgasm. The way Louis’ eyes used to shine when they stared at each other, like _Can you fucking believe this?_ It couldn’t be any better. It hasn’t been any better. People have started to ask Harry if he’s thinking about going solo and he wants to say, _Are you crazy?! Why would I ever do this without Lou_.

But when he thinks about it, it’s been a long time since they’ve looked at each other that way.

*

Gemma won’t stop calling it his _Hollywood_ party, in a way that’s laden with sarcasm, like he’s sold out and disappeared up his own arse, but she means it in a teasing way. He doesn’t want to start calling L.A. home, exactly, but his life feels less complicated here. People are used to fame. He’s not such a big deal. He can have a party, and keep it a secret, and there won’t be a thousand fans camped outside his door. Mostly, he concedes, that’s because he let Kendall plan it. If there’s one thing a Kardashian can do it’s make publicity appear or disappear at will. It’s like a superpower or something.

But even so, it’s not his _real_ party. It’s like some kind of wish-fulfilment exercise. I mean, _Christ_ , David Beckham is here. And it’s no substitute for dinner with his family back home, or for the annual cupcakes-and-vodka marathon that awaits him with the boys when they get to Australia. Harry’s turning 21 several times this month. It’s a festival of birthdays. So he’s not worried that Zayn and Niall can’t be here. And he tells himself he’s also not worried that Louis’d been so vague. And he definitely won’t concede that he felt anything like disappointment when he saw Eleanor’s photo tagged to Louis’ house in England. That’s where he should be, Harry supposes, the week before they head out on tour again. 

“Where’s your boy?” Kelly asks him, pressed up against him in the photobooth as they pull goofy faces at the camera. 

“Who, Grimmy?” he asks, playing dumb, and she rolls her eyes at him. And he laughs, nudging her out of the booth and onto the dancefloor, the pair of them looping around each other, hands in the air. And he feels free, and happy. No one has their bloody phones out, and these people are all here because he asked them, and it’s pretty extraordinary when he thinks about it. So he’s riding high when the floor feels like it suddenly disappears beneath him, because that’s Alberto opening the door.

“Aw, he made it!” Kelly squeals, nudging an elbow in Harry’s ribs, but he’s not paying any attention because it really is Lou. His hair’s shorter than the last time Harry saw him, back the way he likes it. Unruly, sticking out, a lock collapsing over Louis’ forehead, causing him to brush it away as he looks around. He’s wearing a black dress shirt unbuttoned past his collarbone, and black skinny jeans, and he stalls a little at the entrance looking around. Looking for Harry.

And Harry ignores his heart hammering in his chest, and ignores the thought that they haven’t really spoken properly since before Christmas, because Louis is here and it’s his _birthday_ and Louis is _here_ and that’s all that really matters. So he’s bounding up the steps from the dancefloor like a puppy and wrapping his arms around Lou like otherwise he might disappear. Louis is laughing against his skin and shoving at him to let him go, and Harry thinks it’s probably the happiest he’s been in a long time, because Louis’ smile is soft and warm and just for him.

“Drinks!” he announces, dragging Louis in the direction of the nearest bar. “And cake. There are multiple cakes, Lou, and they _all_ have my face on them.”

He weaves them through the crowd, snagging a bottle of champagne and a plate of food, ducking well-wishers and installing Louis in a booth against a side wall. Just the two of them for a moment.

Louis forks a mouthful of cake. “I think that’s Baby Haz’s nose,” he says, wrinkling his own, as he eats it.

Harry’s full of energy and his knee keeps knocking against Louis’ under the table, and he pours them both drinks before he sits back. Really taking in the sight of him. Still too thin, he worries. 

“Are you here for long?” Harry wants Louis to stay. He wants to install him in his spare bedroom, and take him surfing, and feed him toasted cheese sandwiches and giant bowls of pasta. Feed him until he softens back into Harry’s Louis.

“Nah. Just came for your party, didn't I. Going to Australia tomorrow.”

It’s a slow wave of disappointment, because, of course. But it’s also the staggering realisation, like, _how is this their lives?_ Leave London, party in L.A., tour Australia. It’s insane. 

“Well, at least take a selfie with Becks before you go,” he grins, jabbing at Lou’s elbow until the corners of his mouth creep up in a smile. “Didn’t think you were going to make it.”

“Didn’t know if you’d want me here, really.” Louis’ voice is small and sad. He suddenly seems a thousand miles away, even on the other side of this table.

“Invited you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but …” Louis trails off, looking around the party. Waving his cake fork to indicate the dancefloor and the DJ and the crowded bar. “This isn’t really us, is it Haz? I mean. It’s you, I guess, now. It’s just not you and me.”

Harry wants to contradict him. He wants to tell Louis he’ll kick every celebrity here out on their arse in the street if Louis asks him to. That none of these people matter. That there’s only _ever_ been Harry and Louis.

Instead he says, “Is there still a you and me, Lou?”

Louis scrubs at his eye with the heel of one hand, and he looks so fucking tired. And all Harry can do is fret. Like, why isn’t he okay? Is it Eleanor, or his family, or worse? Is he sick?

“Not really the time or place for that, is it?” Louis says, but he’s smiling when he does. It’s not an accusation; just the reality of the thing. It’s been months, _years_ , and they’re not going to fix it in the midst of a party. Still it feels like an opportunity that Harry doesn’t want to let slip through his fingers. He’s afraid if he lets Louis go that there won’t _be_ a time or a place.

He wraps his hand around Louis’ wrist, lying between them on the table. His thumb traces Louis’ tattoo. “When’s the flight?”

Louis looks up in surprise. “What?”

“When are you flying, tomorrow? I’ll come with. That’ll give me like fourteen hours where you can’t get away from me.”

Louis huffs out a humourless laugh. “Not sure I’ve been the one trying to get away from you,” he says quietly, and Harry thinks this might be what a heart breaking really feels like.

Before he can react, Liam’s next to them, whooping and hauling Louis out of the booth for a hug and Harry wants it all to stop, but this is his party and suddenly someone is handing him a shot of something, and now there are too many people between him and Lou and he’s not sure what to do. Something in his chest feels like its expanding, and he’s panicking a little bit, because something important was happening. The invisible thread was weaving back between him and Louis and it was fleeting and fragile and it’s about to break again. He’s staring at Louis, and Louis is looking at him over Liam’s shoulder, and Harry tries to force words out. Tries to say _Don’t go_ , or _Let’s both go_ , or _Give me your hand and don’t ever take it back_. Alexa’s tugging on his sleeve, and pressing another drink on him. And it’s futile. He’s failed this test somehow. But then Louis holds up four fingers, and swoops his hand like a plane. And Harry’s nodding, grinning like a damn fool, and he can do this. He can make this work.

Hours later he’s dancing again when he realises Louis has left. Just knows it, in his bones, without scanning the crowd. But for the first time in a long time Harry’s okay with that. 

*

When Harry wakes up he’s pretty sure that at some stage during the evening he must have eaten a sweater. That’s the only explanation for how his mouth feels like the desert and his tongue seems two sizes too big. And he’s contemplating his hangover, stretching his limbs and trying to decide how bad it will be to move his head, when he remembers. 

“Shit. SHIT. SHIT!” He tumbles out of bed grabbing at his phone, and it’s just before 12, so there’s still time but not much. He calls Casey, who handles their travel, and begs and pleads and promises all kinds of gifts and makes several _very_ inappropriate suggestions. She lectures him about how LAX departures are the worst, and he can’t just expect the world to revolve around him, but he can hear that she’s rattling on her keyboard anyway so he just holds his breath and hopes. 

“Okay,” she says finally. “Okay. You’re only getting away with this because Louis is already on the flight so our airport expediter has to be there in any event,” and she’s trying to sound stern, but Harry’s squealing “THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU” down the line and promising marriage and babies and the name of his firstborn and to write songs about her for the rest of time. She laughs, eventually, and tells him he better be ready to leave in half an hour because the driver won’t wait. That’s fine, Harry thinks. Plenty of time. Even if he probably needs to shower for twenty-five of those thirty minutes. He ends the call, catching sight of himself in the mirror. For a man with a hangover the size of Texas, he’s got a pretty big smile on his face.

*

Harry doesn’t even notice the paps. He’s striding through the airport, sunglasses planted on his face, and the expediter has him through customs and security in almost record time. He has the advantage of no checked luggage, which he’ll pay for later, when his assistant punishes him by sending on the worst collection of clothes that he’ll be stuck with for the next leg of the tour, but he doesn’t care. Because he’s reached the VIP lounge.

Louis looks up from an armchair, surprise registering on his face. He slowly tugs his earbuds from his ears, and Harry realises Louis didn’t expect him to turn up, and somehow that hurts more than anything. How long has he been living down to Louis’ expectations?

He runs a hand through his hair and fidgets, sinking into the seat opposite.

“Cutting it a bit fine, aren’t you?” Louis says, with a grin, nodding at the airline representative who is moving through the lounge towards them to ask them to board.

“Made it, but.” 

The plane is fully boarded and ready to depart, but the two Japanese businessmen and the elderly couple already in first class don’t pay them any attention. Harry and Louis slip into their seats, kicking off their shoes. The steward offers Harry a glass of champagne and he visibly shudders, prompting a laugh out of Louis. “Sore head?”

“I’ve definitely felt better,” he agrees, but if he’s honest with himself, sat here with Louis as the plane begins to taxi, he’s not felt this good in a while. Louis travels in comfort. He’s wearing grey marle trackpants cut off at the knees and a stretched out t-shirt, and when he curls in his seat toward Harry and pulls his knees up on the footrest he looks vulnerable. He looks _young_ , Harry thinks, despite the tattoos and the defined muscles in his arms. Despite all the miles they’ve travelled on planes just like this one.

Harry reaches for his hand, interlacing their fingers on the wide armrest between them. This is on him, he thinks. Louis’ grand gesture was coming to L.A. It’s up to Harry now.

“I want to fix this,” he starts, haltingly. Unable to look Louis in the eye; concentrating on the shape of his hand. “I feel like I broke it, and I didn’t mean to, and I’m sorry.”

Louis sighs with resignation, and squeezes Harry’s hand lightly. “I’m not sure it’s all your fault, Haz. It’s just… it used to be you and me in this little bubble, and then it was like, I wasn’t special anymore, y’know? You’d be laughing and joking with the other lads, and it felt like you’d pulled away. And not just on tour. You suddenly had all these new mates, and you were going out all the time, and...I felt like you’d outgrown me or something.”

Harry looks up at Louis then. He’s blushing, and his eyes are closed. Like it’s the most embarrassing thing he’s ever had to say. And Harry wants to hug him and shush him and kiss him all over his stupid face, but he also wants to get this right and he knows he needs to tread carefully.

“I did pull away,” he says quietly. Because the only way this gets better is if they lay all their cards on the table. Louis looks up in surprise. Like he was expecting Harry to laugh it off and tell him he’d misunderstood. “I did it for you. It was getting to you. All the stupid rumours and bloody websites, and the idiot questions we were getting in interviews. I thought, if I wasn’t so demonstrative, then there’d be less for them to chew on and obsess over. And eventually it would all die down and you and El could be happy and stop worrying about it.”

Louis is frowning now, and he rakes his free hand through his hair and screws his eyes up tight like he’s trying to process this and make it fit. 

“Nothing else seemed to work,” Harry plows on, his hangover starting to make his head throb. “Like, it didn’t matter if we denied it, or you talked about Eleanor, or I dated a hundred women a month. They didn’t believe us. So it seemed simpler to just give them less to work with.”

He runs his thumb over the back of Louis’ hand.

“I thought it would be an okay trade-off, right? Because we’d still have all that time when it was just us.” He huffs out a sigh, and he feels like his eyes are getting all scratchy, and _bloody hell_ the last thing he wants to do right now is start blubbering. “But that time just disappeared. The proportion of our lives that was in public just increased and increased. And it was like, one day, I looked up and you weren’t there any more.”

Louis’ eyes are wide now, his expression unreadable.

“And more than anything, I wanted you to be happy. So I figured, if you were doing okay without me, then I should get my shit together and do okay without you too, you know. Stand on my own two feet or whatever. Couldn’t stop home on a Thursday night wishing you were there to watch Gogglebox, so yeah. I started going out more, I guess.”

He sort of wishes Louis would say something now, because he feels like he’s right out on the bendy part of a limb, and there’s still thirteen and a half hours in these seats and it’s going to be super awkward if he’s got this wrong.

“Thing is, right, I miss you something fierce, Lou. And I’d let someone shave my head if it meant I’d get you back. And you know how I feel about my hair.” 

Louis laughs out loud at that, and Harry thinks it might be the most phenomenal thing he’s ever heard. 

“But like, I don’t care what they print about me, you know? They can say that I’m hot for cock if they want, that’s fine. But I’ve seen it wear at you. I’ve seen it get under your skin and make you so sad and stressed out, and I don’t want to have that happen, ever.”

Louis reaches out to tug gently at one of Harry’s curls, twisting it around his finger, and Harry has to school himself not to turn his face and kiss the inside of Louis’ wrist.

“I broke up with Eleanor.”

Whatever Harry was expecting it wasn’t that.

“Harry, you make bad decisions on your own, you know. You buy terrible sweaters, and you let your hair grow too long, and you date Kardashians,” Louis says, a grin playing around the corners of his mouth. Harry snorts. “I broke up with El because the last year has been the most miserable of my life. And it’s not her fault, she drew a bloody short straw. She was never going to fill your shoes, was she?”

“I do have quite big shoes,” Harry stage whispers. “You know what they say…”

Louis pinches him in the leg hard, and he cries out.

“But your worst decision Harry, by far, seems to have been breaking up with me for my own good.”

Harry can hear his pulse thumping in his own ears now, and he can’t tell if Louis is still teasing him or if this is something else.

“Haz, I was only ever pissed off about the fan bollocks because I thought if it got any more out of hand they’d separate us somehow. Modest wasn’t going to let us turn into gay icons when our fans were twelve year old girls! Every day that _Larry_ trended was a day closer to separate tour buses and separate flights, and I was so scared of that.”

Harry’s mouth is a desert again. He can’t even swallow, because there’s this giant lump in his throat and he wishes his head was clearer because he’s not sure he understands what Louis is saying.

“But you, y’daft prick. You did it for them, didn’t you?” Louis’ eyes are wet now, but his features are soft and forgiving. “I love you, Harry Styles. I think maybe I’ve loved you since you looked at me from under that giant beanie on stage, and I thought your dimples held the keys to all the mysteries in the world. ‘Cept I was younger then, and less articulate, so I probably just thought you were fit.”

The laugh that escapes Harry almost turns into a sob. It’s a sort of strangled sound because he can’t quite believe it. He’s still not sure he’s getting the right end of the stick.

“So I don’t think you should make any more decisions on your own, right? I think maybe, maybe we should make them together from now on.”

And that’s enough for Harry. He tugs hard at Louis’ hand, pulling him off balance across the armrest and into Harry’s lap, and he presses kisses all over Louis’ face, buries his hands in Louis’ hair, and he can’t stop murmuring _I love you I love you I love you_ into Louis’ temple. 

When they part, Louis has his hands on Harry’s shoulders, and he pulls back to look him properly in the eyes. And there are tears still drying on their cheeks, and they both clap hands to their faces, to hide their smiles. To check that this is really happening. To believe, somehow, that a dream might be coming true.

*

When they land in Sydney, the steward says they’ll deplane them first, through stairs off the airbridge, and the attendant who meets them apologises for the fact that there are photographers outside.

Harry gives Louis his biggest smile and slides his sunglasses into place. Louis flips his hood up, shoulders his bag, and takes Harry’s hand.


End file.
